


Going There

by greenjudy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1796 Broadway, Earth-1796, F/M, Team Clicky, Trains, accordions, are we actually dating, armagnac, family xmas, it's dangerous to diss New Jersey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjudy/pseuds/greenjudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becky Quan is a wicked smart young gallerista! Clint Barton is her pretend boyfriend, and also an Avenger!</p><p>Together, they fight crime. And go to New Jersey for Christmas.</p><p> </p><p>“We could stay on the train,” Clint said. “We could just stay on the train forever, riding. We have Armagnac.”</p><p>“That would be…an awesome Christmas, actually. But I want…”</p><p>“What do you want?” </p><p>“I want to kick their asses. With you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going There

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [1796 Broadway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972937) by [rainproof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainproof/pseuds/rainproof), [teaberryblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue). 



“Yukon Gold potatoes,” Becky informed Clint, “are only thirty years old.”

“I did not know this,” Clint said.

Clint, Becky decided, had cleaned up pretty, but he was carrying what was probably the homeliest duffel bag in the world over one shoulder. She pushed her overnight bag back and forth on its urethane wheels.

“Think about it. All those generations of human beings who never, ever got to eat a Yukon Gold potato.”

“That’s very sad,” Clint said.

“It’s sad as fuck,” Becky said. “It’s suitably sad. What are we doing? It’s the Seventh Avenue Concourse. Everyone looks sad. The best Dunkin Donuts in Penn Station is closed. It’s not even snowing outside. It’s Christmas minus snow. And plus we have to look at this weird sculpture-homage to New Jersey. What is this?” 

“Karmic penance,” Clint said. “For all those times I dissed New Jersey.”

 

\--

“Here we go,” Becky said. “I don’t believe this.”

They watched the train emerge from the darkness. Clint stretched, rising up on his toes, and shook himself like a dog.

“We could be evil,” he said. “We could be. We could even not even go.”

“No, no,” Becky said, “that would be interpreted as surrender. My sister would never let me live it down. We have to. Family Christmas or doom, okay? No motherfucking quarter, we’re going, we’re going…”

“We’re going to New Jersey,” Clint said.

“Stop, you’re making it sound so fucking ominous, just stop—“ 

“New Jersey,” Clint intoned. 

 

\--

“We’re on the train now,” Becky said. “Oh god. Which way do we face? Choose wisely.”

“Forward,” Clint said, stowing the bags. 

He pushed until the seat back rotated over. 

“It’s safe now,” he told Becky. 

“Do you get woozy or something, facing backward?”

“I go ass-first into danger all the time,” Clint said. “I wanted a change of pace.”

There was a lurch, and a female voice explained that they were departing Penn Station. 

“It’s happening,” Becky said. 

“Are you okay?”

“We’re going now,” Becky said. “We’re going to New Jersey.”

“We could still not go,” Clint said. 

“What—what are you talking about?”

“It’s not too late. We could get off this train at the next stop and just never go. There is a very good waffle cart in Seacaucus,” Clint said, “that I’m pretty sure is open for Christmas.”

“Oh, god,” Becky said. “Oh, shit, tempting. No—hold fast. Hold fast.”

“Waffles,” Clint said.

“Shut up.”

 

\--

“Blue Christmas,” Clint whispered. 

“Is that your brain radio? Turn that shit up,” Becky said.

Newark rolled by, grey and intermittently rainy. Clint cracked his neck, and tapped his fingers against the window. 

“Blue ex-mas,” Clint said. “When you’re blue at Christmastime you see right through…”

“That’s—I know that—I met the guy who wrote that for Miles Davis!”

“Blue Christmas,” Clint sang, “all the paper, tinsel and the fol-de-rol—“

“Blue Xmas,” Becky chimed in, “people trading gifts that matter not at all—“

“What I call fol-de-rol—“

“Bitter gall—“

“Fol-de-rol,” Clint said.

Becky, staring out the window, groped for and captured Clint’s hand. 

Clint glanced at her, leaned in, rested his chin on top of her head, sighed, squeezed her hand, and leaned back into the window.

“Yuletide is a season to receive, and oh, to give, and ah, to share...” he sang, a little hesitantly.

“But all you December do-gooders,” Becky replied, “rush around and rant and rave and loudly blare: Merry Christmas—“

She kept his hand. 

 

\--

“I think I should prepare you a little for Nige.”

“Your sister’s husband,” Clint noted. “Is he a laconic Englishman?”

“More sort of plaintive,” Becky replied. “But he’s musical.”

“Musical?”

“Squeeze box.”

“Jesus.”

“He has a Dick Contino fetish.” 

“Mister Accordion himself,” Clint breathed. 

“Usually he doesn’t bust it out until people are a little lubricated, so you’ll have the protection of a Christmas pudding soaked in 90-proof brandy for at least part of the performance.”

“We’re gonna be concertized?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Becky said. “I’ve been trying to steer him into mariachi music, you know? So far, no luck.”

“Cada loco con su tema,” Clint said. 

“Indeed,” Becky said. “That’s why I brought along this kick-ass Armagnac.” 

 

\--

“Terrible Christmas traditions,” Clint said. “Go.”

“Krampusnacht,” Becky said. “Though I thought that Sandow Birk completely reclaimed that one for me with that tryptich…”

“Not even Sandow Birk can save Krampusnacht, man,” Clint said. “The teeth…the razor-sharp teeth, the kids getting stuffed into sacks, no way…”

“Kentucky Fried Chicken Christmas.”

“What?”

“Japanese Christmas thing. Like, you can’t get hold of a turkey, so _kurisumasu ni wa kentakki!_.”

“You are disturbingly multilingual,” Clint said.

“For real? I don’t fall asleep at the movies and start talking in _Serbian.”_

“How traditional could that possibly be?” 

“It’s been going on for like thirty years,” Becky said. “It’s older than Yukon Gold potatoes.”

“Okay, accepted.”

“Hunger Games Christmas,” Becky said. “Presents piled in the middle of the room. Children forced to make a grab from the pile—and then do combat with whatever they unwrap.”

“That could be a really, really short-lived tradition,” Clint said, “depending on how good they were at combat.”

“Yeah. You can really put the harm on with some of those Lego playsets.”

“What I’m talking about. Not exactly a tradition to pass down to the next generation.”

“Horrifying Ritual Manhunt Christmas,” Becky said. “Kids prowling around outside, in the woods, searching for Santa. Twigs snapping, who is that breathing in the dark, that was you, right? We think he’s out here, but actually, _he’s waiting for us inside.”_

“Seriously?”

“My friend Adrian grew up with that one.” 

“Terrifying. Dangle Your Little Brother from the Wonder Wheel by his Feet Christmas,” Clint said. 

“What? You totally invented that one.”

“Well,” Clint said, “let’s just say a family member invented that one.”

 

\--

“I also need to warn you about the roast beef. Katie has a thing.” 

“A thing?”

“She gets you,” Becky said. “She gets you—“

“With roast beef?”

“It’s the drippings. You know? And it falls apart on the plate, it’s so fucking unfair—“

“Roast beef,” Clint said, “so unfair…”

“You’ll have this thought process, all, ‘Jesus Christ, this is perfect roast beef, why did I come here with this low-assed-grade chick who would probably microwave—“

“I microwave roast beef,” Clint said, “all the time—“

“She’s always on my case, she’s got these children, I’m bringing along a pretend boyfriend who—“

Becky paused, and rubbed her face with her fist.

“It’s horribly perfect,” Becky said. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

 

\--

“Inventory,” Becky said. “Garment inventory.” 

“We’re at Princeton Junction now. Isn’t it kind of late—“

“I’m trying to make a statement here?”

“Yes.”

Becky turned sideways, sliding along the broad bench seat. 

“A statement, that’s why I’m wearing velvet ankle socks…” 

She stuck a foot out in Clint’s direction.

“Ow, careful…”

“with my Louboutins, I’m saying…” 

“Let’s…let’s just get both legs into my lap, that’ll be—oh…okay…”

“I’m saying, I’m trying to be festive, but also subtly say, _Merry Fucking Christmas_ , right?” 

“Right,” Clint said, mouth dry. “And the Clan MacTavish tartan says, uh, ‘I see your fucking Christmas traditions and raise you one very, very short skirt…”

“You know what kind of tartan this is?”

“I know many things,” Clint said. “I know what your panties say, now.”

“I just…I have to kick their asses, Clint, you know?”

Clint looked down at the feet in his lap.

“Asses,” Clint said, “are assuredly going to be kicked.”

 

\--

“Shit, where’s our stuff…”

“Overhead,” Clint said. “Don’t worry. I have all the things.” 

“Can you actually do that? Carry all the things?”

“You’d be amazed, the things I can carry,” Clint said. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Becky said. “I may require your arms.” 

“Both of them? Attached to me, or…” 

“I may demand that you portage me from place to place. That would be nice. These shoes hurt already.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I’ll need a foot massage later.”

“I could give you one right now,” Clint said, considering.

“You could.”

“We could stay on the train,” Clint said. “We could just stay on the train forever, riding. We have Armagnac.”

“That would be…an awesome Christmas, actually. But I want…”

“What do you want?” 

“I want to kick their asses. With you.” 

“I would be honored to kick their asses with you. Or did you mean…I’m sorry, I know we said the foot massage was later…”

“No, carry on…”

“Did you mean that you wanted to kick their asses _with_ me, because I’d be down for that, too. I’ve been hurled at enemies before—“

“I want to brandish you,” Becky muttered, “like a fucking blazing implement of brandishing.”

Clint swallowed, and said, “Do that.”

“You’re cool with that?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Clint’s fingers stilled. He looked into Becky’s eyes, breathed, looked down.

“I’ll knock them out of their fucking chairs,” he said. “I’ll dip you when we dance and set the Christmas pudding on fire.”

“Just don’t set the house on fire, and we’re good,” Becky said, sounding a little shaky. 

Voices murmured from speakers above their heads.

“It’s our stop, Clint.”

“Oh,” Clint said.

“You ready to go? I’ll…need my feet back…”

“Let’s, uh…let’s put these back on, then.” 

“You’re good at buckling.”

“I do a lot of buckling,” Clint said. 

“Do you?” 

“Well…not so much these days.”

“That,” Becky said, “is a crime.”

He straightened up as Becky slid her legs off his lap, and slowly and deliberately steadied his hands on his thighs. Becky cradled the paper bag containing the Armagnac. Clint watched her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing. 

“Well,” she said. 

“Yes.”

“We’re here.”

“Yes, we are,” Clint said.

“Ready?” Becky asked. 

“I’m ready.”

“Me too. It’s Christmas.”

“Yes,” Clint said, “yes, it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> This piece received patient and loving beta attention from the authors of the extraordinary fic by which it was inspired, [Rainproof](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rainproof/) and [Teaberryblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue); my dear friend [Aderyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/) also read this over and gave me invaluable feedback. Thank you so much, guys.
> 
> Clint's Spanish proverb means something like "Every lunatic has a theme" or "every nutcake has a Thing". 
> 
> Becky is quoting a Japanese ad slogan: "Christmas at KFC!" ("Kentakki" is the way KFC has come to be known in Japan.)
> 
> They are singing "Blue Xmas (To Whom It May Concern)," a jazz number written (and sung) by Bob Dorough and arranged and performed by Gil Evans and Miles Davis. If you're curious, here it is: Blue Xmas
> 
> Mister Accordion Himself: [Dick Contino](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9_2EkaxIIY&list=PL37916AF0EBC26551)


End file.
